


I Don't Do That Anymore

by workthewentz



Series: Rewritten [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Captain America: Civil War (Movie), M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, bending canon and the script a lil bit, it's pretty much canon but i basically just rewrote the scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-08 00:06:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7735135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/workthewentz/pseuds/workthewentz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've been rebuilding. Trying to form something like a life, at least an existence, as Bucky Barnes, rather than The Winter Soldier or The Asset. I wanted to start over. But bombings, my past, Steve, they're all intertwined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Do That Anymore

**Author's Note:**

> I basically rewrote the scene where Steve sneaks into Bucky's apartment, bending the timestamps and the script a little bit to make it more emotional. Because reunited supersoldiers deserve emotional.

I start awake as the alarm clock on my bedside table rings loudly. Remembering that I’m not in any danger, I let my eyes close slowly. For a second I daydream about slamming my fist onto the snooze button like they do in the movies, but then realize that if I do my arm will most likely crush the clock. So instead I reach with my flesh arm and press the off button, then roll out of my sleeping bag and rise to my feet.

Shuffling into the kitchen, my ratty year-old robe hanging off of me, I pour a packet of instant coffee into a chipped mug and fill it up with hot water from the sink. I taste it. Not hot enough. I shove it into the microwave and lean against the counter, rubbing my eyes. I retrieve the newspaper from outside my door as I wait, deciding to open it and catch up on the past couple days. 

Once back inside, my eyes scan the front cover, landing on a frightening headline. “United Nations Bombed in Wakanda, Winter Soldier Suspected.” Out of shock, I immediately drop the paper, but crouch down on the floor so I can continue to read the article. “The bombing was carried out at the signing of the Sokovian Accords in Wakanda. Nearly 140 people were killed or injured, tragically including Wakanda’s king. James Buchanan Barnes, also known as The Winter Soldier, who was captured in the 1940s and used as an assassin by Nazi organization HYDRA for over seventy years, is the primary suspect of this crime, though Barnes’ whereabouts are unknown at this time.” Following the news is a blurry colorless photo of a man, his hair and face concealed by a dark mask, walking through a parking deck. 

I stand, my face instantly burning red with anger. How dare they accuse me of this? I haven’t been out of the country in years, much less committing crimes across the world for HYDRA. But I have to give them some credit. They know the extent to which HYDRA’s mind control went. They know how many executions I carried out while I was HYDRA’s fist. While I wait for my heart rate to slow, I go over this in my mind. I remember everything else; I’d remember a bombing. Another execution. I would remember going to Africa. Especially if the Avengers were involved. 

At the same time the microwave rings out through my apartment, there’s a low thud from the kitchen. My body instantly goes on the defensive, my shoulders squaring and my spine rounding into what Zomo used to call my присесть охотника - my hunter’s crouch. I round the corner, the sensors in my arm flexing and releasing, almost as if preparing to be used in a fight. But rather than a government official or a SWAT team standing in my kitchen, it’s the man dressed in blue, the one I pulled out of the water some time ago, the one I’ve been trying to forget and move on from since I fell from that train car in the forties. The Man On The Bridge. His head is down as he examines something, the star in the center of the shield on his arm glinting brightly. 

My crouch isn’t silent enough - I’m out of practice - because Captain America turns, looks at me, and I see what’s in his hands. One of my notebooks, flipped to a photo of him, everything I’ve discovered and everything I remember. He places the notebook on the table and looks back to me with a steely gaze, but I can see the warmth there. My back straightens. The sensors in my arm relax. But I back away anyway, towards the front door again. He follows.

“You know me,” he insists as he plants himself in front of me. I’m instantly sent back to a HYDRA lab somewhere, some time ago. 

_“The man on the bridge. I knew him.”_

_“You encountered him on a mission two months ago.”_

_“But I_ knew _him.”_

I’m at a loss. I know him. _Of course_ I know him. Better than anyone else. Seventy years of HYDRA torture couldn’t erase that. The world itself ending couldn’t erase that. That was Steve, though, and the person looking at me might not be here as Steve. Might be here as Captain America, ready to arrest me. Fight me, like on the helicarrier. But that was when I didn’t know who he was, or wasn’t sure, and I trust him. I’m sure that I’d let him take me now. 

“Buck, you’re a wanted man.” My throat closes up as I process what that means. This life, or this shell of a life, is ending. Buying plums at the farmer’s market in town, getting up and making coffee every morning, going to sleep knowing that they’re looking but that they won’t find me, is over. I glance at the door, but don’t say anything; I hold my wrists out towards him, expecting him to have handcuffs or wrist ties or _something_ to hold me down, because I’m the Soldier, because I’m dangerous and can’t be trusted and need to be restrained, because-

“W-what are you doing?”

“I don’t do that anymore,” I tell him, nearly choked up now. I shove my wrists at him again. He looks down at them, realizing what I’m doing, that I’m offering myself up to him, and his expression changes to one of surprise. He grips my arms in his hands, looking into my eyes. I know now. He’s not here as Captain America. He’s not even here as The Man On The Bridge. He’s here as Steve. And he needs to know. He needs to know that I remember. “Your mom’s name was Sarah,” I say tentatively. His face lights up, his excitement at my memory barely concealed. “You used to wear newspapers… in your shoes.” 

But his excitement is short-lived. As if in response to my newspaper comment, he notices the paper on the floor for the first time. His serum’ed up eyes read the headline, and maybe even the article, from here, and he glances back at me warily, but still with hope. “You didn’t… right?” 

I shake my head vigorously, my hair flopping around, and I’m glad I showered last night. And I knew Steve was touching me, but suddenly I’m _aware_ of it. How hard he’s working to be gentle yet still hold me in place. How his touch can still feel the same after all this time. “I don’t do that anymore,” I reiterate, more firm this time. 

“Well the people who think you did are coming right now. And they’re not planning on taking you alive.” 

And it’s terrifying, the idea that people are hunting me again. But the fear isn’t important. I push it away. I’m used to leaving lives behind by now. Despite myself, I smile at him. He’s here.

We’re going to run.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I used Google Translate, so feel free to correct my Russian. Leave a comment!


End file.
